


Make Your Blood Hum

by orphan_account



Series: A-Z of Kink: House [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Breathplay, Don't Try This At Home, Enthusiastic Consent, House Being House, Love, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22526698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR INTERACT WITH THIS FIC IF YOU'RE UNDER 18.A-Z of Kink: A is for Asphyxiation.Summary: Wilson has always indulged House's inclinations. Even the ones that scare him.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Series: A-Z of Kink: House [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620808
Comments: 3
Kudos: 106





	Make Your Blood Hum

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME UNLESS YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE FUCKING DOING. There are classes you can attend on this kind of stuff if you know where to look. This has been a PSA.
> 
> Title from Baby Says by The Kills.

Wilson finds himself regretting saying yes to House on a daily basis. He'll always be hungry an hour after lunch because he'll let House polish off half of his plate. He'll stumble through the day half-asleep after stupidly going along with impromptu _L-Word_ marathons that last until 2am, triple shot lattes from the cafeteria doing nothing for his heavy eyes.

And now, apparently, he's agreed to choke House during sex.

It's probably irrational to worry that he might kill House by accident. He's a doctor. He's more than familiar with anatomy. He knows where to avoid, where not to press. He understands the biological mechanisms that make this pleasurable for those who are so inclined. But one mistake... one slip...

He spends the day distracted by headlines his mind won't stop conjuring up: _“New Jersey oncologist murders husband during twisted sex game.” “Mild-mannered doctor leads kinky double life.” “Chronic enabler James Wilson regrets indulging batshit spouse after receiving life sentence.”_

Then the thought process will be shattered by an image of House whimpering and arching his back beneath him, his hair matted with sweat, and the stirring in Wilson's groin will temporarily quiet his fears.

As Wilson reads the opening line of an email three times without absorbing a word, he runs a hand across his face and wonders why House always chooses mornings to bring these topics up. He'd be much more productive if he didn't have to listen to House's sexual fantasies on the drive to work, the debauched images burned into his brain for the day. Though really, it's just another thing Wilson lets him get away with.

His distraction lingers as the day rolls by, every hour impossibly slow. When he makes dinner, he navigates herbs and spices while House jams on his guitar in the living room. He pictures them kissing afterwards, satisfied and spent and both very much alive. He ladles slightly burned rice into bowls with trembling hands.

An hour later, House is naked and spread beneath him, squeezing his hand with a needy whimper as Wilson presses the slick head of his cock to his entrance. He gives a strangled whine as Wilson fills him up, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. Wilson grins; the first thrust is always the most glorious, that moment of entry where House is panting and vulnerable and grabbing blindly at the pillow beneath his head.

Wilson sucks in a breath, easing further in until he's sheathed to the hilt. “Fuck,” he grunts. “How are you always so tight?”

House blinks slightly unfocused eyes as he presses his hips upwards, impatient for more. “Because,” he gasps, “my husband doesn't screw me enough.”

Wilson narrows his eyes. Just for that comment, he draws back and then slams into House as hard as he can, gritting his teeth with the exertion. He's rewarded with the sight of House's eyes opening wide, a startled cry escaping him.

“God,” he growls, a clawed hand pawing at Wilson's shoulder. “More, fuck, again...”

Panting, Wilson holds still. It gives him a moment of respite; a second to savour the bliss of being inside House. To release a quiet moan when House grumbles, a scowl twisting his eyebrows as he rolls his hips in a silent demand. A wordless groan follows when he's ignored.

Wilson grins. “I'm not hearing 'please,' Greg.”

“Bastard,” House spits, as Wilson grabs his wrist and tears his hand off of his shoulder, pinning it above his head on the pillow. “Fine. Please.”

“Please what?” Wilson presses, puncutating his teasing with a soft nip to House's chin.

“Fuck me.” He bares his teeth, frustrated and alight. “_Please_.”

The word has barely left his mouth before Wilson begins rocking into him, his lips twisting with bliss. House moans with every motion, guttural, wanton, struggling in his grip until Wilson leans down over his body. He presses their bare chests together, holding him still; House writhes beneath his weight, his head jerking back on the pillow. Wilson seizes the opportunity to press a series of bruising kisses to his exposed neck, unable to resist grazing his teeth over the soft flesh of House's throat until he shudders and gasps. Wilson mires himself in the rush of it, in the euphoria of taking House so viciously. Just the way he likes it.

Then he remembers what he's meant to be doing, and the realisation shocks him into slowing down.

“I'm not begging you again,” House grumbles, wincing in pain as Wilson absently tugs on the hair he barely recalls grabbing a fistful of.

Wilson snorts. “Please. If I wanted to make you beg you'd know about it.” He straightens up slightly, biting his lip at the sight of House's flushed, contorted face. “So. The... breathplay thing.”

House's eyes darken. “Yeah?”

Wilson quickens his pace again, revelling in the moaning sigh he evokes. “Are you ready?”

House's eyes close, and he tilts his head back a little, inviting. “Fuck, yes.”

Wilson watches him, his open mouth, his willing position. His hand tingles, as he imagines compressing that soft, vulnerable flesh beneath his touch. And yet, somehow, it isn't enough.

“Say it.” Wilson's voice has a pleading edge to it, exposing his need for reassurance.

House, however, just groans his impatience. “I didn't ask you to tease me, Jimmy.”

“Not teasing.” Wilson kisses his forehead, slippery with sweat. “I just need to hear you tell me you want it.”

“Same thing,” he mutters.

“No, it's just...” he sighs, trying to focus on keeping his rhythm steady. “I, uh... I don't know if I can do it otherwise.”

“God.” House scowls his realisation. “You're such a fucking _girl_.”

Wilson smiles, fond, irritated. He kisses his cheek this time, adding a soft caress to the same spot with his fingertips. “As if it actually annoys you that I need consent. Come on. Work with me. Please.”

House is silent for a moment. Then his eyes open, and he fixes his gaze on Wilson's. “Choke me.” His lips quiver around the words, his eyes half-lidded. “Choke me while you fuck me. I... I want it...”

He sighs the final statement, the assertion alone seeming to spiral him further into helpless passion. And suddenly, Wilson doesn't need any more convincing.

When House cranes his neck upwards for a kiss, his eyes widen when his attempts are thwarted by Wilson gripping his throat. His head hits the pillow with a soft thud when Wilson tosses him back down, revelling in his grunt at the gesture. Then House lowers his eyes and goes limp against the mattress.

God, Wilson loves it when House stops fucking around. When he crosses that line, no longer able to fight his urge to submit. “Good boy,” he praises, treating him to a slow, deliberate thrust.

House gives a ragged sigh of bliss, a slack grin spreading across his face. And then Wilson hesitates again, but only for a moment.

“I'm going to choke you now,” he warns, surprised at the lack of uncertainty in his voice. “Tap my chest three times if you want me to stop.”

“Three times,” House repeats.

Satisfied, Wilson draws a deep breath. He keeps his eyes fixed on House's face as he tightens his grip on his neck, applying pressure to his throat. House's mouth falls open, a delicious, strangled moan escaping him as his breath is trapped. Wilson can feel the delicate tendons beneath the skin, the sharpness of his jawline against his thumb, and his blood is hot with the rush of power.

He lets go after a few seconds, and House whimpers as he draws in a gust of air. His cheeks are a glaring shade of pink, his lips quivering, and Wilson slams into him hard as he recovers. When he presses down a second time, he experiments with tightening his grip. The confined, ragged breaths drive him absolutely wild.

“That's right,” Wilson growls, as House's eyes roll to the back of his head. “Good boy. Take it for me.”

He keeps his grip firm for seconds at a time, revelling in the violent heave of House's chest when he's released; in the hoarse, broken moans that wring from his throat. He arches and writhes, his body stuttering up from the mattress like his lungs are trying to break out from his ribcage. Wilson lets House place his hands on his chest, feeling them ball into fists when he releases him for the fourth time, or maybe the fifth, he loses count; then, when he tightens his grip again, House's hands unclench and his fingers curl, his nails clawing at him helplessly.

The scratches, the sting, heighten Wilson's pleasure, driving him to thrust harder and harder until the mattress groans beneath them. House's walls clench around his cock as he's deprived of air, and Wilson throws his head back in ecstasy, feeling his release building.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “that's incredible.”

When he slackens his grip again, Wilson thinks he hears him whimper, “I told you so.” He gasps and flails beneath him, a purple tinge to his face as he recovers from another stretch of oxygen deprivation. He jerks like a puppet. Manipulated by Wilson's merciless hands. “Need to cum,” he gasps brokenly. “Please, please...”

Wilson briefly considers making a jibe about his insistence that he wasn't going to beg, but at House's desperation he can't help but relent. He keeps his hand on House's throat, holding, not pressing, as he snakes his hand in between their bodies and finds his cock. It's as hard as steel, the head slick with pre cum. Wilson holds his husband's gaze, fierce, intense, as he starts to fist his length.

“You're a twisted little slut, aren't you?” he sneers, as House's lips contort with pleasure. His shuddering breaths indicate his closeness, the heel of his foot digging into Wilson's ass where his good leg is slung up over his hip. “You love this. I've never seen you so turned on.”

“I love it,” he babbles, rocking his hips to meet Wilson's movements. “Fuck, James, _ please _...”

Wilson growls and lowers his head, capturing House's mouth in a brutal kiss that makes him moan and paw at his chest. As he does, he tightens his grip on House's windpipe again, quickening his pace on his cock. House quivers, jerks; then he goes rigid, his lips slack against Wilson's as his orgasm hits. The force of it, the clench, the intensity, sends Wilson over the edge seconds later; his fingers fall limp against House's neck, and he gives a guttural groan of bliss as House thrashes his head and sobs beneath him. Wilson's eyes are clamped shut, his body stunned with the force of his pleasure. He releases House from his grasp and collapses against his slack form, listening to his stuttered, gasping breaths as he comes down from his high. He grabs for House's hand; feels a relief he can't explain when House grips him, tightly, giving an uncharacteristically affectionate squeeze.

The room is filled with the sounds of panting, then a rustle of sheets as Wilson slips out of House and rearranges them so they're lying side by side, chest to chest. He draws House into a one armed embrace, placing his spare hand on his face; his eyes are shut, his lips parted, like he's asleep. His cheeks are still flushed, but his breaths are slowly returning to normal.

Wilson presses a kiss to his nose, stroking his cheek. “Are you alright, my love?”

A pause stretches out for long enough for Wilson to become nervous; then House smiles. He actually smiles. “Bitching.”

_Thank fuck. _

Wilson laughs, kissing lips that are too exhausted to reciprocate. “Scotch?”

“Big one,” he replies sleepily. “And... uh...” His voice lowers until it's barely audible. “Thank you.”

Wilson beams, flooded with love and pride.


End file.
